So, this morning, as I prepared to head into the treachery of white, I looked at Younger, who was gloating in the bask of a second day off school, and stated, “You have to stop hoping for snow. Seriously.”

“No. Never. Not even in the summer.” He patted my shoulder. “I can have a snow day, and you can survive driving on snow. Both are possible.”

“Stop. Hoping. For. Snow.”

“You’ll make it, Mom.”

I did, actually. At about twenty-five miles per hour. With a string of traffic behind me.

But specifics really aren’t important.

What is important is I made it.

In the parking lot of my work, I texted Younger of my success. He wrote back, “Told u.”

On Tuesday, I started a new (second) job. Aware of my apprehension, and always eager to avoid a day of school, Younger slid into the passenger seat of the car, raising his eyebrows at me, and suggested, “Me and you. Las Vegas.”

I laughed then sighed. “We have responsibilities, Younger.”

He accepted the comment in silence, but he hadn’t really surrendered.

“It’s not too late,” he informed me, as we waited at the light in front of his school. “Viva Las Vegas. I’m no Elvis, but you know viva Las Vegas and all.”

“I don’t even know which direction Las Vegas is in.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he assured me.

“It matters a little.”

“Fine, then. Jeff City. We’ll play the slots. On my phone.”

And he grinned at me.

Just in case anyone hasn’t realized, he’s trouble, that one.

And one of these days, when I’m writing you from Las Vegas or maybe a closer locale while playing slots on Younger’s phone, you’ll know. . .